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WARNING 1: This is extremely geeky, I wanted to write a crying story set in a Swords and Sorcery world because fetish.
WARNING 2: This shamelessly exploits my own fetish. Very, very shamelessly.










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Mistress Rite moved fast through the shadowy corridors of the Dungeon. Her cape billowed behind her. She was dressed in full combat gear today, which included her curiously-shaped helmet, which made it look as if her head was being clutched by a silvery, three-clawed talon. Her face was set, moments away from a snarl. A troop of goblins flattened themselves against the walls as she passed. A troll made a valiant effort to slip through the nearest doorway as he saw her approach, only to slam his head on the frame and fall backward into the corridor with an almighty thud. Now snarling, the enraged sorceress gestured violently. The emerald pendant on her neck flashed briefly, and the troll, bellowing in horror found himself sinking into the Dungeoun floor. The sorceress stamped on his belly as she passed. A Black Knight had been unfortunate enough to be preoccupied with a minuscule stain on his sword. After another gesture and also a word from the sorceress, he yelped and ran for his life as the sword, now an enormous serpent with an uncountable number of heads pursued him across the Dungeon. There were a few more casualties, including an imp who was incinerated to an ashy silhouette against a wall, and a giant spider was who was given an inexorable compulsion to start eating her own legs. After that, the rest of the Dungeon minions knew to stay out of her way.

She finally reached her quarters. She let herself halt. Her knees were close to giving away from the strain of all that spellcasting. The offending event raced through her mind. Denied a promotion yet again! Yet again a gutter-sucker from the slime-pits took her rightful post! The injustice of it smarted over and over. She was convinced now that the Dark Lord was a fool. How could he not be, when none of the cretins he promoted as Chief Lieutenant could keep themselves alive for more than a year? All along she believed that she was passed for promotion for being a woman. That this was primarily a man's game, men with penis on their brains. She knew she was better than all of those dotards. And how she worked and worked; five years of literal blood and sweat. But now, the Dark Lord had smeared insult to injury, and promoted another woman. Another woman! That bitch Aesandra chosen over her! It wasn't long ago when she was a mere loremaster - a glorified librarian - and now, the Chief Lieutenant at the Dark Lord's side - with command over all of his minions - command over her.

She tried to calm herself. Gather her thoughts. Her face was expressionless now. She had a long face, made sharp with cheekbones. A round, strikingly prominent dimple stood out insolently on her chin. Her eyes were large, deep-green and hooded with heavy eyelids. Her lips would have been fuller if she hadn't kept them habitually pursed. She broke her inertia slowly, taking a step at a time until she reached her table. Then she picked up an inkwell, and launched it with all her might against the wall. The room had become a blur. It took a few minutes for her to register, with great wonder, that she was sobbing. So great was her shock that did nothing to halt it. Perhaps she could do nothing. It came in waves and gales. Large drops of tears rolled liberally down her cheeks and down her throat, where they disappeared into her breastplate. Sobs erupted from her open mouth. Her bottom lip was bulged out. Her chin was bunched up, wrinkled; each time a sob caught in her throat it trembled. When the gales stopped, she sat with her back to the wall. Her face was a shiny mess. Single drops of tears still fell, but no longer had room to make streaks. Lamplight shone from the tears in her eyes. Her bottom lip was trembling, making the dimple on her chin dance. She could not remember ever crying like this. She could not remember ever crying. Paradoxically, she felt a rush of shame and horror mingled with relief and calm.

She steadily came to her feet. She searched for a handkerchief among her garments, and then to her great surprise, found one. Slowly, meticulously she began to wipe the stains of weakness and relief from her face. She blew her nose noisily. She avoided looking at the mirror to save herself the indignity of seeing her reddened face and swollen eyes. She would not be stepping out of her quarters today. Finally, she smiled. She was Mistress Rite; Lady Blackheart. Let little Aesandra play General for a while, then maybe someday she'll run into an accident. Accidents were a common affliction among the high ranking minions. Rite felt the weight slide off her chest, and infinitely patient.